The Big Picture
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Juice discovers that some memories are easier to leave behind than others.


**Author notes**: Contains some blatant speculation about Juice's past. Thanks to Tanaqui for the bunny and for betaing.

**_The Big Picture_**

**_By Scribblesinink_**

Juice watched as the flames slowly consumed the two halves of the file Roosevelt had given him. He couldn't be sure the information had been erased from every record—he planned to do some hacking into various law enforcement systems later, when he could be sure no one would be breathing down his neck—but at least this particular copy would be _gone_. And with it, the hold the sheriff had had over him.

But Jesus, he'd been such a dumbass!

He poked at the fire, making sure every last page was reduced to ashes. Chibs had the right of it: the only thing that mattered to the club was what was on his birth certificate. They wouldn't give a shit about something someone had dug up from some archive. He'd have avoided a lot of crap if only he'd remembered that sooner, wouldn't he?

But no, he'd panicked when Roosevelt had revealed he knew exactly who Juice's father was. And when he'd shown him the picture—the face Juice had never even seen before—all Juice had been able to think about was the club, his brothers, and how he'd lose the only real family he'd ever known. And then—.

Though the night was mild and the heat from the fire seeped through his cut and shirt, Juice shivered. Things he'd done... _Miles_... His mouth went dry at the memory. Miles hadn't deserved any of that; he'd been loyal, only doing what any club member would've when he'd discovered who'd taken the blow. But Juice had killed him. And then gotten him branded a traitor.

He still wasn't quite sure which was worse.

Giving himself a shake, Juice shoved the thoughts away into the furthest corner of his mind while he restlessly stalked back and forth across the grass, waiting for the fire to finish its job. It was over and done with: he'd prayed for himself, and he'd prayed for Miles, but Miles was six feet in the ground, in an unmarked grave, and nothing Juice could do would bring him back.

After making sure the cinders wouldn't flare up again and burn down the yard, Juice was already climbing onto his bike before he recalled the photo he'd taken from the file. Really, he should've burned the picture too, put _all_ that shit behind him. But—.

He sighed; he'd always had a rough idea who and what his father was, of course, but this photo was as close to meeting him as he'd ever come. And though he'd always claimed he didn't care about the bastard who'd walked out on his mom before he was even born, and he'd never tried to find him, though he probably could have if he'd set his mind to it, he was finding it surprisingly difficult to destroy the single connection he now had.

Straddling the bike, he hesitated a second, unsure. Jax had called a Church meeting, and he was already late for that, but—.

Shrugging back out of the hoodie he'd been putting on over his cut—damned Roosevelt again—he draped it over the bike and went back inside. Whatever Club rules said, it'd be better if nobody but Chibs knew the truth. And leaving that photo lying out there in the open for anyone who happened by? Probably not a good idea.

Picking up the picture, Juice studied the man in it for another moment, perhaps trying to find a family resemblance. At last, shaking his head at himself—he really was being a sentimental idiot—he headed over to the small desk littered with a jumble of computer parts and bike magazines and Harley manuals. Snatching up the first book to hand, he flipped it open and put the photo inside. As he was about to drop the book back onto the desk, the title caught his eye: _The Complete Idiot's Guide to Motorcycles_.

Snorting to himself, Juice scrubbed his free hand across his head as he recalled Chibs had been the one to give him that book, a few months after he'd started prospecting with SAMCRO. Chibs had cuffed him over the head and muttered something about "Teach yaself some skills," even though he knew perfectly well Juice had been riding bikes since before he was legally allowed. But Juice had recognized the gesture for the kind of rough razzing meant to hide the love and loyalty that existed among the brothers he'd found in SAMCRO.

It was why Roosevelt's threatening to out him had shaken him so deeply. To come so close to losing it all...

_No_. Juice crammed the book back in under the pile of manuals. He wouldn't go there again. Not now, not ever.

Walking back out, he put the hoodie on again, zipping it shut over his cut, and swung a leg over his bike. He was expected at Church. Him: Juan Carlos Ortiz, full-patch member of SAMCRO. And he was in it for life. That was all that mattered; everything else was just noise in his head.

**Disclaimer**: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series _Sons of Anarchy_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.


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